


Hair of the Dog

by kaeorin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Werewolves, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: A Soul Mates AU with some werewolves thrown in. You’ve got a Mark that never fails to raise eyebrows, but for the most part, you’ve made your peace with it. Until a stranger walks into your life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t think there’s anything that needs to be warned about in here. Sex. There's some sex. Cropped up kind of unexpectedly while I was writing it, to be honest. And some bullies accuse someone of bestiality because they’re assholes but it’s just jerks being jerks. No animals were harmed in the filming of this fanfic.

Working with the public, you were used to the stares.

On good days, you didn't blame them. Soul Marks like yours—non-human—so rarely appeared. Most people had cute little sailboats or roses or shoes or something like that. Inanimate objects. Not your perfectly-formed impression of a dog's paw print. The theory was that, whatever your Soul Mark was, your Soul Mate would have some connection to it. Your friend Tori, she had a perfect representation of a bow and arrow on her inner wrist, so she took up archery. She met her Mate on the second day.

Today, you were feeling less than magnanimous. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that you were hearing that damned camel legend for the second time that week. The little old lady had ordered her coffee without incident, until she'd spotted your Mark when you reached to hand her her cup. That was when she'd leaned in and started in on the familiar story. Supposedly, some guy woke up to discover the silhouette of a camel on his inner wrist, which of course he took to mean that he needed to travel. One day, he boarded a plane to Egypt and promptly got arrested for fucking a camel. You gritted your teeth and thrust the paper cup at the woman.

She wasn't the only one. People had been talking for as long as you could remember. When you were in elementary school, you would sometimes catch your parents' friends' worried glances, and the adults would often stop talking when you entered the room. In middle school, that was when your classmates really came into their own, in terms of teasing. You'd heard it all: Bride of Fido, the Dogfucker, and of course the stunningly clever Bitch. In high school, you had tried volunteering at the animal shelter, figuring that maybe you'd meet a fellow worker there and recognize their Mark as something pertaining to them, but when the director had spotted your Mark, she'd pulled you aside for an exceedingly-awkward conversation before asking you never to come back. A grown woman. It was ridiculous.

You had long since stopped reminding people that animals didn't get Soul Marks. If the camel story was even true, it was more likely a cover story for a pervert with a conveniently-shaped Mark. But, really, it was probably just a flat-out fiction, an urban legend like the girl with the broomstick or the actor with the gerbil. You didn't bother telling that to anyone anymore, though, especially not the types of people who thought it was okay to get into the camel story with a perfect stranger while she was just trying to do her job and give them their goddamned coffee.

“Excuse me ma'am, I'm terribly sorry, but some of us have things we need to do, and you're holding up the line.” 

It was the man in line behind the lady, and he was...gorgeous. Dark hair, slicked back out of his face but not so slick that he looked like an oil spill. Just the slightest hints of stubble, as though he'd shaved this morning but he was just...so manly and virile that the hair had already started to grow back. Cool grey eyes that regarded the lady much more civilly than you felt she deserved today, and a smile that was at one disarming and icy. He was not one to be fucked with. He was not one to wait patiently, not even for a respected elder to finish her ridiculously-inappropriate conversation.

So you were not terribly surprised when, instead of puffing up and becoming indignant, the lady took her coffee from you (you immediately yanked your hand away and re-arranged your bracelets to cover the Mark) and went off on her way. 

“I'm really sorry about that,” you said quickly, moving to the register and doing your best to plaster your Customer Service smile back onto your face. “What can I get for you?”

He placed his order and you set about making it for him. You didn't look his way again while you worked, but a gentle prickling on the back of your neck told you that he was watching you. Well, you thought to yourself, trying not to grimace as you spilled hot coffee down the back of your hand, let him watch. As long as he didn't raise a fuss about being served by a dog-fucker and try to get you fired, it didn't much matter to you what he did. 

When you finally set his coffee and bagged pastry down on the counter in front of him, he accepted them with a murmured thanks. Rather than taking them and hurrying out the door to do whatever it was that he needed to go do, however, he took a seat not too far from the counter and picked up the newspaper sitting at the table. You watched him for a moment. If he didn't have anywhere to be, then why did he rush that lady off...? Probably he was just tired of hearing from her, and impatient to get his caffeine fix. You watched him for a moment more. He raised his eyes from the newspaper and lifted his cup slightly at you, one corner of his mouth curling into a smile. You dropped your eyes quickly and focused all of your attention on the rest of your customers. Were you overcompensating? Maybe. But it did wonders for your tip jar.

After the morning rush had all but died down, you went out into the dining room to do a quick bit of tidying-up. He was still out there. You tried to ignore him as you wiped down the tables and dropped abandoned garbage into the trash cans. You told yourself that you were just imagining that you felt his eyes follow you as you carried the carafes of milk and creamer back behind the counter to refill. But when you glanced over at him, despite yourself, he was already looking at you with that same half-smile on his face.

You weren't sure what exactly made you do it, but you drew in a deep breath and went over to his table. “Would you care for a refill?”

He looked surprised. “I didn't think you did refills here.”

He had a point. “We don't,” you confessed. “But...I mean, you got that other customer to leave, so I just wanted to thank you.”

“I'm alright as far as coffee goes...” He put down the paper and sat up a little straighter. “But I was wondering if you might do me the honor of having dinner with me. Or lunch. When do you get off work?”

Unconsciously, you readjusted your bracelets. It was no longer a good look for you, you were much too old to be able to pull off the multi-bangle look, but they were something to pull attention away from your Mark. You were reluctant to give them up. 

Surprisingly, you didn't want to turn him down. Even more surprisingly, it wasn't just because he'd rescued you from that old lady. Up close, he was achingly attractive, and though his face was carefully blank as he looked up at you, there was something in his eyes...

“I'm off in an hour,” you heard yourself answer. A smile broke across his face, brightening his features and making it even harder to look away. 

Well, there was no going back now.

***

When you'd finally clocked out, you slipped into the back without looking to see if he was still out front. It was fine either way. If he had come to his senses and disappeared while you were busy taking care of customers, well, at least the thought of him had made your shift halfway bearable. Maybe it was better that way. If he was still out there, waiting for you, what would that mean?

Taking a moment to send a silent thanks to your past self for keeping a change of clothes in your work locker, you changed out of your uniform and ran your fingers through your hair. It wasn't perfect. Hell, compared to the man possibly waiting for you out front, it was pretty pathetic. There was something almost...regal about him, and here you were, your hair creased from being in a ponytail all morning and your clothes a little bit wrinkled from sitting on the bottom of your locker, but...okay. He'd seen you in your shitty work uniform, so there was really nowhere to go from here but up. Anyway, what were the odds that he was even still out there?

You splashed some water on your face and shook your head. Your eyes fell on the mess of bracelets and, feeling brave, you tugged every last one of them off and tossed them into the locker. There was no sense in hiding it now. Finally feeling ready—or at least as ready as possible—you drew in a deep breath and headed out, running through the list of errands you'd have time to complete if he had disappeared already.

But you needn't have worried. There he was, standing next to the very table he'd occupied all morning. He'd dealt with his garbage and pushed in his chair, and now he was standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the doorway. For you. You hesitated for a moment, but then ducked your head to hide your smile and approached him.

“I was afraid you'd slipped out the back to avoid me,” he said in a low voice. Warmth flooded your body—pleasure, and a little bit of surprise. “I don't make it a habit to come on to people while they're working.”

You nodded. “I'd like to say that I don't make it a habit to accept offers like this, but...I guess technically I've accepted every single one I've ever gotten.” Though he tried to hide it, you couldn't miss the stricken expression on his face as he held the door for you. When you were both standing together on the street, you leaned in a little closer. “Yours...is the only one I've ever gotten. There seems to be something a little...off-putting about me, if you can believe that.” You laughed self-consciously and ran your fingers through your hair. The motion caught his eyes, and you watched as he studied your Soul Mark. God, was this a mistake? He didn't have some kind of sick girl-on-dog fetish, did he? You jerked your hand down and stuffed it in your pocket, and he met your eyes. 

“I've yet to see anything off-putting about you,” he said. The words came out in a rush, like maybe he hadn't actually planned on saying them out loud. As soon as he had, however, he looked away, and started walking a little bit faster. Well. If he was a pervert, then at least he had the decency to be embarrassed about it. You hesitated for just a moment, and then sped up to walk beside him.

***

The restaurant where he took you for lunch was cute: small, clean, and mostly empty except for you and the waitstaff. They all seemed to know him, but at the same time, they were careful to give him space. He sat across from you at the little table tucked into one corner of the place. The corner of his mouth was quirked up, a bit like he knew something you didn't, but the heaviness of his brows kept him from actually looking happy. You looked up from the menu and met his eyes. He didn't look away. A strange little thrill ran through you. 

The afternoon stretched on. The two of you ordered and ate your food, talking all the while. Unlike the other dates you'd been on, you never felt as though you were running out of things to talk about. Neither of you had to carry the conversation on your own, and you laughed with him more than you'd ever laughed with anyone in your life. He paid the bill for lunch, and you didn't feel overly weird about letting him. When you stepped out into the afternoon sunlight and he suggested taking a walk together, it was easy to accept. By the time the sun started to set, kissing everything with that golden sort of light, you already felt for all the world as though you had known him for ages.

He sat down on a bench near the water and you hardly even hesitated before joining him. Something had been nagging at you, tickling the back of your mind all afternoon. Sensing it was now or never, you turned to face him.

“So...why?” You felt your cheeks redden as he looked quizzically at you. “Why...did you ask me out? I know why you shooed that old lady away, she was keeping you from your coffee. But you didn't have to do anything more than that, and yet...here we are.” You spread your hands out slightly, indicating the (admittedly, magical) view.

He was quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that you had just begun to convince yourself that he was starting to realize there really wasn't an explanation for this, and that he should probably be getting home. But then he started playing with the buttons on his sleeve. “You're not the only one with a shitty Mark,” he said in a low voice. “For the first fifteen years of my life, I didn't have one at all, so you can imagine the kinds of things that I heard.” 

He had a point. It was rare for Soul Mates to be so far apart in age, but in even rarer cases, sometimes a person never developed a mark at all. As awful and humiliating as yours was, at least you'd always had one. At least you knew that there was someone out there meant especially for you. Soul Mates weren't always romantic, but they were always important. He got the buttons unfastened and began rolling his sleeve up, away from his wrist. You tried not to look. There really wasn't anything inherently private about Soul Marks, but...you always tried not to look. The world would have been a better place for you if more people had actively tried not to look at yours.

“Then one morning, I woke up and I had one. I knew what that meant. Everyone knew what that meant. I was fifteen years old, nearly grown and done with school, and my Soul Mate had only just been born.” You recognized the bitterness in his voice. The teasing would have been merciless. “And on top of that, it looked like this.” He thrust his arm out at you, openly inviting you to look. You laughed before you could stop yourself, but covered it up (however poorly) with a sympathetic groan. It looked almost like a love heart...drawn by a very small child with very poor eyesight and possibly...epilepsy. It was reddish-purple and lopsided, with uneven edges. You traced the edges with your fingertips before remembering yourself and letting your hand drop back to your lap.

“Maybe...” You turned your head slightly, studying the horrible thing. “Maybe they're from Australia? If you turn it upside-down and kind of...squint...?” 

He laughed once, but then his face became as grave as ever. “The best I can figure is that it was an accident somehow. Maybe it was an accident that I got a Mark in the first place, or maybe there was an accident and...whoever it was supposed to be for just doesn't exist anymore. Or maybe it was just a bug in the system.” 

“No.” You spoke with a hell of a lot more certainty than you truly felt, but the wistfulness in his voice made you want to fix things for him. Failing that, you could at least reassure him. “No, it always works out. If your Soul Mate wasn't still kicking around here someplace, the Mark would have faded. Everyone knows that.” You patted his knee, feeling a lot more courageous than you ever had in your life. “They're out there. You just might have to travel to Australia to find them.” You glanced over, pleased to see that he was smiling.

“Oh, is that all?” He reached over and took your hand in his. His hand was large, but still...elegant, somehow. Looking at his hands, you wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he did some sort of skilled trade like glassblowing or jewelry-making. His fingertips traced little patterns against your skin, working their way down to your damned Mark. It was his turn to trace the outline now. There was something in his touch that didn't make you feel self-conscious about it for the first time in your life. He traced each of the individual pads, then tapped the little triangular claw marks above each of them. “A wolf. You don't often see the claws on a dog's print. That's interesting.”

You raised one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. You really didn't like talking about this, as lovely as he made you feel when he touched you like that. “Dog, wolf, whatever. It's all the same. Even if I met the person the Mark's about, who's to say they wouldn't be one of those idiots and accuse me of trying to hurt their beloved Bowser?”

“You think that's possible? That you could be destined for someone so stupid?” His voice was low. It...did things to you. Things that you didn't have to wait around for your Soul Mate to take care of. You squirmed a little on the bench and tried not to look at him. “Who says it has to be a pet owner, anyway? It could be one of those sled guys—the ones who do the sled races in Alaska.”

You laughed, but then shook your head. “I hate the cold.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him nod slowly. “I hate Australia.”

“Well that settles it, then,” you said, sitting up a bit straighter in hopes of staving off that pointless little swell of hopefulness that rose within you. Not everyone ended up with their Soul Mate forever, but almost everyone at least wanted to find them. The world had done its part in making sure you had no interest left, but surely this man would still like to find his. “Let's both of us stay right here in the city. And maybe get a pizza? I'm getting hungry again.”

And just like that, he became a part of your life. Not a big part, or at least not Soul Mate big, but you talked on the phone and texted while you were each at work, and at least once a week you shared pizza or takeout and bad old movies. You ranted and vented to him about your dumbest customers until he offered to put you in touch with a friend of his, some kind of head-hunter. You stopped ranting so much, but each new idiot pushed you closer and closer to accepting. Most of the time you brushed him off by stealing another slice or cracking open a fortune cookie, but the thought had been planted.

One night, while you were locking up the shop, a group of boys cornered you by the door. You recognized them from high school, but couldn't have named a single one of them. They all reeked of cigarettes and cheap alcohol, and followed you up the block, barking and howling. One of them snarled at you and reached out to stroke your hair. When you punched him in the face, the rest of the group only laughed and yelped and howled at you some more. You really didn't know what else to do, so you took off running towards your building. Not the smartest idea, of course: you didn't really want them knowing where you lived, but you were a lot faster than they were, and it was better than standing on the street anyway. You got inside and made sure the door locked behind you, and then made your way up the stairs on legs that trembled not from fear so much as from sheer rage.

Still acting on instinct, you took a glass out of the cupboard and slammed it down on the counter. There was half a bottle of whiskey in the back of your refrigerator. You poured in a few inches of liquor and drank it down, relishing the burn. It gave you something else to focus on. Your phone rang, sitting in your bag on the table. You licked the rim of the glass and went over to dig it out to answer it.

Thorin. Naturally. You felt the ghost of a smile cross your lips as you answered. Your voice must still have sounded a little too pissed off, because he hesitated before greeting you. “Is everything okay?”

You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. “I'm fine. Just ran into a bunch of old school chums after work, that's all.” You poured a little more whiskey into the glass and carried it with you into the living room. “How are you?”

“I'm fine too. Are you on your way? Did you—Should we reschedule for another night?”

Dammit. That's right. You'd had plans with him. It was his turn to host movie night. You groaned into the phone. “I'm sorry, I completely forgot.” You pulled yourself to your feet and went over to look out the window. You didn't see the throng of idiots down there anymore, but that didn't necessarily mean they were actually gone. “I kind of...don't feel comfortable leaving my place right now...”

“I'm coming over.” His voice was hard. “Did they hurt you?”

“No!” Someone poked their head out from the shadows near the front stoop and you ducked backwards, away from the window. “God, no. They were just drunk. And stupid. You don't need to come over here.”

“Are they still there?”

You really didn't like lying to him. Not only could he usually tell, but he lied to you so so rarely that it felt unfair. “Um...I don't know. I don't think so? I'm probably just being paranoid, is all.” But you still couldn't bring yourself to tell him not to come over.

“No, I'll be right there. It's okay.” He hesitated again, but then his voice filled the line, as rich and comforting as ever. “It'll be okay.”

“I know.” And you did.

He got to your place almost inhumanly fast—almost fast enough that you worried he'd left a trail of traffic accidents in his wake. But he seemed unharmed, if not unsettled. His eyes, not quite as icy as you'd thought that first day you'd met him, scanned the hallway outside your door, and then the interior of your home. “I didn't see anyone,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” you repeated. You had been sipping that little bit of whiskey while you waited and, while you weren't drunk, you were definitely...buzzing. “Did you stop to get dinner?” He was carrying a couple of large plastic bags, and they seemed heavily laden with food. He looked down and smiled almost sheepishly.

“I had it waiting at home. You're usually...pretty hungry when you get off work. I didn't want you to have to wait.”

You stood there, frozen, taking him in. He was gorgeous and thoughtful and protective and...just...perfect. There was someone out there with a Soul Mark of a giant heart, or an elegant hand, and when the two of them met, they were going to be insanely happy. It hurt a little, but you pushed it aside. That was life. 

If he was unnerved by the way you were looking at him, he played it off well, moving to your cupboards to get a couple of plates and unpacking all the various little boxes he'd brought. Before long, your kitchen smelled amazing and he was handing you your plate.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” He took a bite, as though he didn't care one way or the other, but you knew that the curiosity would be eating him alive. So, as much as you didn't actually want to talk about it, you did, for him. You recounted the short but terrifying little encounter between bites. 

“It's so stupid,” you finally said, pushing your plate away. “It's so fucking stupid. I should really look into one of those Mark-Removal companies on late-night TV.” There were constantly ads for companies that promised to remove your Mark, or alter it into something else. In the light of day, you knew they were all bullshit scam artists, but it was so tempting to try.

He reached across the table and closed his fingers around your arm. His grip was tight, almost too tight. When you looked at his face, he looked...intense. Angry. “They'll scar you for life,” he practically spat at you. “Don't do that to yourself.”

You struggled to free your arm. It didn't take much: as soon as he realized what you were doing, he dropped you as though you'd burned him. You stood up and took your plate over to the sink. “Scarred is better than a laughingstock,” you said, scrubbing your plate just a little too hard. “It's better than getting threatened by—I don't know, a fucking...wolfpack in the middle of the night.”

He was quiet, but not in a way that made you think even for a moment that you'd convinced him. He got up from his chair, and, before you could turn to look at him, he had gripped your shoulders and spun you away from the sink. He pressed your back to the counter and slanted his mouth over yours. His kiss stole your breath, stole your common sense, hell, even stole your protest, as weak as it was, from your lips. His hands fisted in the hair at your temples and wouldn't let go, not even when you pushed against him. He just stepped closer, delved his tongue deeper. Your heart raced, thudding almost painfully in your chest. “Thorin—” You finally managed to turn your head to the side. He sank his teeth gently into the skin of your neck and sucked, sending little thrills all throughout your body. 

You struggled to catch your breath, but he wasn't making it easy. He growled something against your neck. You slid your fingers through his hair and pulled, just hard enough to drag his mouth up off of you. When he lifted his eyes to yours, they looked glazed, unfocused, but as you watched with wide eyes, he seemed to snap back into himself. Almost. Rather than letting you go, he tightened his grip in your hair. You'd never seen this side of him. And...you didn't mind it.

“What?” He asked, almost innocently. “Are you hurt?” 

You laughed weakly, even as your heart beat unsteadily. “No. I'm fine. I'm...good. But what are you doing? Where is this coming from?”

Something dark passed in front of his eyes, but he blinked and then it was gone. “I want you,” he said at last. He said simply, unabashedly, as though it should have been obvious to you from the start. “I get these...moods, from time to time, and it's harder to resist. Do you not—” He released your hair and smoothed it down, almost as though apologizing. Before he could go very far, however, you grabbed the waistband of his slacks and pulled him closer again. 

“I do.” If you hadn't had that little bit of whiskey buzzing through your bloodstream, it might have been a little harder to say, but it wouldn't have been any less true. “I've wanted you for weeks now.” It was a low whisper, but he must have heard it perfectly, because then his mouth was on yours again, and one of his hands was trailing down the front of your body. He nipped at your jawline and made quick work of the fastener on your jeans, but he didn't bother yanking them down over your hips. Instead, he shoved his hand inside and, without preamble, slipped his finger between your lips. Your body shuddered against his, a moan forcing its way out of your mouth, and you turned your head to look at him. 

This was an entirely different man from the polite and caring gentleman who'd taken you out that first afternoon. His face were dark, his breathing ragged, as he sought—and found—your clit. His eyes watched you, sharp and unblinking, almost like a predator. And yet it was the same man, because he was whispering things in your ear, things that were filthy...and also sweet. He took your earlobe between his teeth and tugged gently, his breath like a growl against your skin. When you came, you came hard, gripping his arm and the counter so hard your fingers ached. He leaned in, pressing his body against yours and offering support. Your face burned even before he peppered your cheeks with gentle kisses.

“Are you okay? Shall we keep going?” His voice was still the same. He didn't pull his hand out of your jeans, but his free hand skimmed the air just in front of your body, as though checking for signs of injury. You didn't trust your voice just yet, so you only nodded, but it was enough. He kissed you again, deeply enough to steal your breath, but not long enough to make your head spin, and then pulled you over to the table. He bent you over it and finally yanked your jeans down further. Fuck.

“I have a bed, you know,” you said, but did not move to stand up. There was something about this, about doing this with him. This was right. Anyway, his hand pressed firmly against the small of your back held you steady.

You heard the zip of his trousers, felt him position himself just at your entrance. “Can't wait that long,” he gritted out, and in one smooth motion he was filling you more deeply than you'd ever felt before. You cried out, suddenly overwhelmed, and he froze right where he was.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” you choked out, grinding your hips backwards against him. “Don't stop now...”

You didn't have to tell him twice. He started thrusting again, until you had to clutch the edge of the table in hopes of staying upright. There had been...certain nights where you'd fantasized about this sort of thing, but even your wildest, most blush-worthy fantasy paled in comparison to the real thing. When you gasped out his name, you felt his entire body shudder and he redoubled his efforts. Just as your knees started to buckle, he wrapped one arm around your stomach and pulled you up flush against him, driving himself still deeper inside you. His other hand slid down to touch you again, and though you would never have expected to be so ready so soon, there was something in his touch that made you bite your lip. His name became a constant litany on your lips, a prayer, a plea, and when you came, you came as one, standing together in the middle of your kitchen, of all places.

He continued holding you, your back against his chest, until both of your breathing had returned to normal. When he rocked his hips gently against yours, you whimpered, but the sound quickly turned into a giggle when he growled quietly against your shoulder. Before long, he let you lean forward again, to brace yourself against the table, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he dropped his hands to the hem of your shirt and yanked it up over your head. That was when he stepped back, abruptly yanking himself out of you and making you flinch.

“Jesus,” you hissed. “Are you okay? What happened?” You weren't quite ready to turn to face him yet, though, so you stayed right where you were, with your head hanging between your shoulders.

“You have... On your back...” He sounded like he was seeing a ghost. You cast your mind back, trying to figure out what he was talking about, and then you remembered. That was when you stood up straight, and turned around.

“It's called a port-wine stain,” you said. You did your best not to sound too self-conscious about it. It was just a part of your body. When you'd been born, a bright pink splotch had covered most of your right shoulder blade, and when you grew, it grew with you. You'd looked into treatments to get rid of it, but they were expensive, and it didn't seem to be hurting you any. Right now, with the way he was looking at you, those wild eyes, you would have gladly paid any sum to make it stop. “It's just a birthmark. It's not contagious or anything, and it doesn't hurt.” He was still looking at you like that, and when you reached for him, he jerked backwards. Stung, you yanked your shirt out of his hand and pulled it back down over your head. “I would have said something but I forget about it. God...” You never would have taken him for the type of person to be put off by that, of all things. “That's my fucking luck all over, you know? Not one shitty birthmark but two.” That was what happened when you let people get close, you told yourself as you yanked your jeans back up and fastened them, then scooped his dinner plate up off of the table. Everything went fine—until it didn't. He didn't say anything, and he continued to not say anything as you washed his plate. Your eyes burned. This was stupid. Why was he even still here?

You flinched when you felt his hand touch your hip, and you would have turned around but you just couldn't stomach the thought of seeing the way he was looking at you. His other hand found your other hip and he pulled you back against his body. He wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but perfectly clear. “It's not shitty.”

You fumbled with the dishes in the sink for a moment, but then let your hands be still. “Then why did you react like that?” Your voice was uncharacteristically small. You didn't really want to know the answer.

“It took me by surprise, that's all. I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you?” He slid one hand beneath your shirt again, but seemed to be waiting for permission to continue. Your pride, wounded as it was, hesitated to let him see you again. You couldn't take that reaction twice in one night. But your body was reacting to him the same way it had been reacting to him all night long. So you swallowed hard and nodded with your eyes closed tightly. You let him pull your shirt over your head one more time, but he didn't pull away this time. He ran his fingers over the surface of your skin. It had been a long time since you'd last looked at it—it was a pain to try to twist yourself enough in the mirror to get a good look, and as long as it wasn't itching or burning, you could live with it just fine. You could feel the way his fingers trembled as they touched you, and it made you want to draw away from him.

“Look, you don't have to—touch it or anything, if it creeps you out. Okay? Just...don't act like I'm Frankenstein's monster or something, because I'm not.”

“You're not,” he agreed. “You said something about having a bed around here somewhere?”

Despite your hesitance, you led him to your bedroom, and, true to his word, he spent the rest of the evening making you feel like the most beautiful woman on the planet.

***

Nearly a month after your first time together, you showed up at his place after closing the shop just like you'd agreed on that morning. The door was slightly ajar but he wasn't inside. You wandered through all of the rooms on the first floor, but you couldn't find him anywhere. Clutching the take-away cup of tea that you'd brought him from work, you stood in his kitchen. “Thorin? Are you here?” Unease prickled the back of your neck until you heard him calling to you from the basement.

You'd been over plenty of times, even slept over quite a few nights recently, but you had yet to go into the basement. There wasn't much down there, he had said, only storage, and spiders. But you steeled your nerves and made your way down.

It was every bit as dark as you'd expected, and it smelled a little musty. None of this soothed your fear. Soon you found yourself standing off to the side of a large empty room. No storage. Hell, as far as you could tell, there weren't even any spiders down here. But neither was Thorin. Had you only imagined that you'd heard his voice? There was a strange little partition wall, like a book cage, running down the center of the room, and when you approached it, you saw the door, complete with multiple intense-looking locks. Was this a cage, then? Against your better judgment, you stepped inside. There was really nothing different about the inside of the cage compared to the outside: it was just as empty in here as it was out there. What was this? You called to mind every horror movie and precautionary tale you'd ever come across: crazed men who locked women in basements and tortured them to death. But...not Thorin, surely? You'd known him for months now...

“You'd better come out of there, love.” The voice made you jump and spin around, dropping the tea in the process. But then you laughed, giddily. Nervously. It was only Thorin. He was leaning against the side of the cage and...sweating. He wouldn't look at you. You maintained a safe distance from him, skirting away from him as soon as you'd exited the cage. He didn't seem surprised at your reaction.

“What is this? Why are we down here?” 

He didn't answer, only stalked away from you again to duck into a little alcove that you hadn't noticed before. There was a sink there, but no toilet, and no mirror. He grabbed a sheet off of the shelf next to the sink and came back to toss it inside the cage. You watched him with a heavy heart. Whatever he was preparing for in there, it didn't seem good. He grunted and clutched at the door frame, but pushed you away when you went to him.

“What's wrong? Let me help you.” You didn't like not knowing. You needed answers. He knew that. You reached for him again, and this time he let you touch him. His whole body was trembling. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Are you sick? What can I do?”

He silenced you by crushing his lips against yours, kissing you like maybe he thought he'd never see you again. He didn't kiss you like this often. It did nothing to calm your fears. You clutched at his shirt, practically wrapping yourself around him, until his back twitched and he pulled away with a choked yelp. He cupped your face in his palms and kissed your forehead, the tip of your nose, your lips, then released you and stepped into the cage. He worked the locks effortlessly, as though he'd done them hundreds of times before, and then stepped away from the door.

“That first day in the cafe, I stayed because I recognized your Soul Mark.” It was his voice, but it also somehow...wasn't. You stepped closer to the wall of the cage, hoping that he would do the same, but he didn't move.

“What are you talking about?” You touched the bars. He half-snarled at you, choking it off with a struggle, but it was enough. You jerked your hand away.

“I thought it was just a coincidence. I had these hopes, but I was also certain that they couldn't be true. At best, I thought maybe you were destined for someone else like me.” Now he did step toward you, but his movements were jerky, halting. He stopped after only a few steps. Something terrible was happening to him. You could see it in his face when he looked at you. His eyes were pleading with you for something you didn't know how to give. You felt a tear drop down your cheek. “Your birthmark.” Speaking was getting difficult for him, but he swallowed hard and forced the words out. “The one on your shoulder. Has anyone ever told you that it looks a little like...a love heart? If you...squint?” He thrust his arm out at you, much like he'd done the first day, and suddenly you recognized his Mark. 

“But then—” Wait, something...were the bones of his arms shifting? You stared in horror as his arm twisted and lengthened before your very eyes.

“Don't go,” he begged, dropping to his knees with another drawn-out cry of agony. “Don't leave. I'll explain everything in the morning, just don't go tonight.” Breathing was getting harder for him: you could see it in the way his chest strained with every movement. “You deserve to...know. But don't leave.” Then he screamed. The sound was so wrenching that you had to close your eyes, had to smash your hands against your ears to block it out. This wasn't happening. You couldn't stop the tears now, just like you couldn't really block out the sounds he was making. You heard his labored breathing, the sickening sound of bones cracking and shifting. This was a nightmare. Maybe you'd fallen asleep on the counter at work or something. A howl came from directly in front of you, and you opened your eyes. Thorin, that gentle, awkward man, had somehow been replaced with a monster. It paced in the cage in front of you, not once taking its pale yellow eyes off of you. It was hairy and twisted, but it almost looked like a wolf. Thorin was gone. 

Without realizing it, you had begun moving backwards, stepping slowly to the staircase. There was no fooling the monster, however: when it noticed, it bared his teeth and leapt at the cage wall. It rattled violently, but held. When you felt your foot touch the first step, you turned and fled up the stairs, with the howls and snarls of the monster following you. 

You got as far as the front door before you stopped. It was the way he'd asked you to stay. The hollow look in his eyes. The clash between doubt and hope that you'd seen play out on his features. God, you were so close to freedom, but you couldn't step out the door. With a sob, you turned the lock and went into the bedroom. It smelled like him. It was comforting. You didn't think, just grabbed the duvet and wrapped it around yourself as though it could protect you from whatever had just happened.

Even in here, you could hear the cage rattling. You tried to block it out and just go to sleep so you could wake up from whatever crazy dream this was, but the monster was losing its mind downstairs. You worried about the cage. How much could it actually withstand? If the monster broke through, what would happen to you? On shaky legs, you made your way back through the house and down the steps. Halfway down, you stopped. You still clutched the blanket tightly around you.

“Now you stop that.” Your voice was a joke: tiny and quavery and terrified. You closed your eyes and swallowed hard. The monster was quiet. “I'm right here. I don't know how much of you is left in there—” Here your voice cracked and you had to stop to try to regain control over yourself. When you felt like you could speak without crying, you went on. “—But okay. I'm not going anywhere.” You made your way down the last few steps and went over to sink down against the wall farthest away from the cage, but where the monster could still see you. “I'm not going anywhere.” The last bit was more of a whisper to yourself.

You stayed awake most of the night, watching the monster pacing and breathing in its cage. Any time it started to get agitated, any time it started to rattle the cage, all it took was a few words from you (and your voice didn't get any less tiny or quavery or terrified) to calm it down. Just as the sun began to lighten the sky outside of the basement windows, your exhaustion finally took over, and you fell asleep. It was fitful and didn't last long. The sound of the cage rattling startled you awake, and not even the same quiet reassuring words you'd been saying all night stopped it. Your eyes flew open. Thorin was unlocking the door and stepping through. You struggled to your feet, pulling the blanket around you. 

“You're okay,” you breathed. It wasn't until that moment that you realized how certain you had been that you would never see him again. You couldn't stop the tears, but when you ducked your head and tried to hide your face in the blanket, he hurried to you and pulled you into his arms.

“You stayed.” He whispered it into the top of your head. His tone was reverent. Was he praying? 

“Well, I've got that stupid-looking birthmark on my back, and you're...a wolf?” It sounded so strange, but you had seen it with your very eyes.

“Werewolf.” He chafed his hands up and down your upper arms, even through the blanket. “Let's get you to bed, and then I'll wager you've got some questions for me.” He led you up the stairs. When you turned around and looked at the cage, you saw the mess you'd made when you'd spilled the tea. The monster had only made it worse, pacing through it and tracking it all over the floor, but right there, near the door, you saw it. One perfectly-shaped paw print, complete with the little triangular claw marks above each of the pads.


End file.
